


echoes

by peacefrog



Category: The Exorcist (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Marcus/Others, Minor Marcus/Peter, Oral Sex, Post-Episode: s02e10 Unworthy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2018-01-18
Packaged: 2019-02-19 07:17:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13118781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peacefrog/pseuds/peacefrog
Summary: Somewhere near Bellingham, Marcus meets a man outside a bar, and he looks so much like Tomas that Marcus actually calls out to him.“Whoever that is, I’m not him.”Marcus kisses him anyway, up against the side of the bar with the stranger who isn’t Tomas’ hands sliding down the back of his jeans.





	1. Chapter 1

death cannot harm me  
more than you have harmed me,  
my beloved life.  
—Louise Glück

—

Somewhere near Bellingham, Marcus meets a man outside a bar, and he looks so much like Tomas that Marcus actually calls out to him.

“Whoever that is, I’m not him.”

Marcus kisses him anyway, up against the side of the bar with the stranger who isn’t Tomas’ hands sliding down the back of his jeans.

“I can’t,” says Marcus, pulling away.

He doesn’t look back to see if the stranger who isn’t Tomas watches him as he stumbles out into the night.

—

At the bottom of his bag, Marcus finds one of Tomas’ shirts. It’s unwashed, and Marcus lifts it to his nose and drinks it in. The past floods in like a haze of dust and holy water. Slowly he unbuttons the front of it, each button slipping free like a prayer beneath his fingers.

Marcus pulls the shirt around his bare shoulders and sleeps fitfully, dreaming of Tomas on his skin.

—

The man Marcus meets in Oak Harbor reminds him of his father. Something about his smell, all alcohol and rage. Marcus takes him back to his motel and gets him into bed and lets the stranger with the terrible smell ravage his broken body with the edges of his teeth.

And for a moment all Marcus can think is, I want you to hurt me.

He’s never done this before, not with anyone, but he can’t open his lips to say as much when the man whose name he never bothered to get unbuttons Marcus’ jeans and takes his aching, leaking cock into his mouth.

When Marcus comes, it’s with Tomas’ name lodged in his throat. And he thinks, it should have been you.

The stranger tugs himself to completion all over Marcus’ belly where his shirt’s rucked up, and Marcus doesn’t bother cleaning himself before rolling over and trembling to sleep curled into one side of the bed.

And when he wakes, the stranger is gone.

—

It’s a just and fitting punishment, Marcus knows. Emptied of God and alone. Even excommunicated, with Tomas by his side, Marcus had felt holy. Now, unworthy, it’s like he can feel his damned soul quivering beneath his bones.

He works maintenance on a fishing vessel that moves up and down the coast, jumping islands, always dropping him somewhere new. And though he’s rubbish at it, he manages to slip by most days tucked away in a little corner of the rocking boat with nothing but his emptiness.

“You’ve never done this before,” says one particularly burly fisherman who finds him fiddling around with a sink in the galley.

Marcus manages a smile. “How could you tell?”

“What’d you do before this?”

“Priest,” says Marcus.

It draws a laugh from the fisherman so loud the boat seems to shake more quickly around them. “Good one,” he says, clapping Marcus on the shoulder.

—

Marcus learns that the burly fisherman’s name is Daniel, and together they stumble into a bar on Camano Island. Daniel smells like the sea, saltwater and the underbellies of fish, and he rests his thick hand on Marcus’ knee while they drink cheap beer tucked into the corner of the bar.

“We can get outta here,” says Daniel. “Get a room.”

“No,” says Marcus. “No.”

The bar is mostly empty, and Marcus leads him into the dingy little bathroom and locks them both into narrow a stall. The lights above them flicker and buzz. Daniel shoves Marcus up against the stall door and sucks a kiss into his throat.

And as Marcus is dropping to his knees in the flickering light, and Daniel is roughly tugging at his hair, Marcus thinks back to the last time he’d taken communion. Something holy on his tongue. And the hands in his hair feel all wrong, and the floor is dirty under his knees, and he’s never done this before.

Daniel tastes exactly as he smells, and Marcus closes his eyes and sees Tomas’ smile, clear and bright as morning. And he wonders if, wherever he may be, Tomas is thinking of him, too.

—

Marcus doesn’t bother getting a room. A kip on a bench near the water is as good as a bed as far as his body is concerned these days. No matter how soft the mattress, he always wakes up aching.

The weather’s turning colder, and he pulls his only scarf from his only bag and wraps it tightly around his throat and shoves his hands into his pockets. And at his nape beneath the scarf there grows a tingling and a warmth. The memory of a touch.

In his life Marcus has known the hands of God, as he has known the hands of Tomas. And though they both have shaped him, he’s killed for only one. 

—

A storm moves in when they’re out at sea, and the boat thrashes them about like the foulest of demons rattling its weary host. All that wrath, all that anger, and though it is of God, it is not God, Marcus knows. Only nature and her disinterest, though Marcus wonders now if there’s really any difference.

He ambles above deck, where nets are being hauled in the driving rain, fishermen crashing into one another like waves. He lets his body bash against the railing, water sloshing up and over his shoes, soaking his jeans. The ocean sprays into his face, salty and cold, and he thinks how easy it would be to just slip away into the deep. Swallowed whole.

—

The storm passes. Marcus finds a little nook just off the galley and curls into it in his soaked clothes, and he weeps. Full-throated and undignified, his cries rattle the hull. Above deck, the fishermen continue their work. Hauling and shouting and stripping the sea. Bless us, oh Lord, for these Thy gifts, which we are about to plunder from Thy bounty.

Marcus weeps until his body has no more left to give, and he falls into a fitful slumber. He dreams of Tomas, a rosary linked like a noose at his throat, his eyes white as clouds.

“You did this, Marcus,” he shouts. “You did this!”

Tomas’ upturned hands tremble. They’re covered in blood, reaching for Marcus, and now they’re his father’s hands. There’s a hammer at his feet…

Marcus bolts awake and nearly bashes his head against the side of the nook, but he’s on his feet in an instant, heart hammering inside his chest. The boat creaks and groans beneath him. The world spins. He collapses to his knees and retches out the content of his stomach, grasping desperately for something to hold.

—

There’s a buzzing in the air when Marcus steps from the boat, and he feels it there, right behind his eyes, tickling like a thought he cannot hold. He waits, listens, inhales the scent of fish and saltwater, but it’s gone in a blink, swallowed by the crash of ocean water.

And the taste that it leaves on his tongue is nothing short of bitter, no edge of sweetness in sight.

—

Marcus finds a bar and drinks himself half blind. He has no idea what island he’s on, what city he’s in. He can no longer feel his hands and a woman down the bar is making eyes at him and all he can think is, you look ridiculous. But no more ridiculous than he feels, slurring his words and asking for another, and he knows he would take her up on her unspoken offer if he could trust himself to stand.

“I think you’ve had enough, pal,” says the bartender, his face blurring before Marcus’ eyes.

“It’s been a lifetime of enough, mate,” Marcus shouts, uncertain what his own words are meant to convey, though he knows they’re true the moment they slip from his mouth.

The night beyond that turns to dust, and he finds himself stumbling drunk down streets lined with brick buildings and humming sodium lights, hanging onto every surface his hands can find to keep from falling off the earth. 

The last thing he registers before tumbling into dreamless sleep is the tickle of wet grass against his cheek. And he wonders, am I crying?

—

Marcus wakes to hands on his shoulder, his body gently being pulled from sleep. A familiar voice repeating his name. Beneath him, wet grass soaking his jeans. His mouth is dry as sand.

“Marcus?” The voice is bright as the morning sun battering his face now. 

Marcus rolls over, shields his eyes, almost manages a smile. “Peter?”

“Can you stand?”

With Peter’s help, Marcus gets to his feet, and together they amble the short distance to his truck.

“Do I even wanna know?” Peter asks from behind the wheel.

“Probably not.”

“Figured you’d moved on by now. Where’s your partner?”

“Somewhere else.”

Peter produces a bottle of water and shakes two aspirin out into Marcus’ palm. “Let me feed you?”

Marcus chugs down half the water and sighs in relief. “That would be a blessing,” he says. “Thank you.”

Peter takes Marcus to his boat, and in the little galley kitchen cooks him eggs and brews a pot of of strong, bitter coffee. 

“So you wanna tell me why I found you passed out in the park back there?” 

“Been a rough couple of months,” says Marcus.

“This have anything to do with what happened to Andy?”

Marcus grips his steaming mug, averting his gaze. “I don’t expect you to believe me when I say this. Most people can’t accept what they can’t see. There was something inside of Andy. An evil you can’t even begin to comprehend. It was going to take my partner, and I had to make a decision.”

Marcus meets Peter’s eyes, finding nothing but quiet understanding. His expression soft as the rest of him. Marcus wants him to scream, to give him what he deserves. He only says, “I believe you.”

“I have to live with my decision,” says Marcus. “With the knowledge that I would do it again. My partner, he...”

“Left you?”

“Compromised my heart.”

Peter’s soft eyes turn sad, but no less understanding. “I see.”

They finish their eggs and coffee and sit quietly, awkwardly. Marcus fidgets with the zipper on his jacket. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands. Finally, Peter stands, rounds the little table, and kneels at Marcus’ feet.

Reaching out, Peter cradles Marcus’ face in his hands. “Why don’t you stay a while? Rest.”

“Got a job to get back to, I’m afraid.”

When Peter kisses him, for a moment Marcus feels the weight of his burden slip from his body. Light as air, he kisses Peter back, tangles fingers in his hair, and allows himself to feel the relief. 

Gently, they part, and Peter sighs. “You should go to him.”

Marcus blinks away the dampness in his eyes. “Thank you, Peter,” he says, stealing one more gentle kiss. 

Marcus leaves in silence then, feeling Peter’s eyes on him as he plods from the boat, though he doesn’t dare a glance behind. 

—

Marcus spends three days at sea, in the cramped quarters of the fishing vessel. There isn’t a bed for him, so he sleeps in his little nook, waking when he’s needed to repair things he knows nothing about, yet somehow managing to not leave them in worse shape than they were found. 

Marcus has come to find that he is very good at faking.

When finally they dock on the mainland, Marcus is exhausted to the bone, in need of a shower and a drink, nagged by an itching in the back of his mind that there should be a pair of hands wrapped around his throat.

He walks to the end of the pier, peels off his cap, gazes out at the water. It begins as nothing more than an absence, one that empties him in a way he’s never known before. And then, at once, the buzzing begins, like flies skittering all around his brain, and the flood comes rushing in.

It’s not like it was when he was a child. There is no face to behold, no vision. And it’s not like a presence ripping through him, as he’s felt so often in the past. Only a noise in his head so terrible, so full, he’s certain it’s going to burst him wide open from the inside. A voice, disembodied, clear and true.

_Can you hear me, my child?_

“Yes,” Marcus tearfully whispers, shaken to his bones. “I can hear you. I’m listening.”

_You are forgiven. You have always been forgiven. Go to him._

The voice goes quiet as quickly as it began, clipped away like the end of a song, and in its place he sees Tomas, his face crying out, twisted in pain. He is shouting Marcus’ name.

Marcus’ hands shake where they grip the wooden railing. “Tomas.” 

The name is like a prayer on his tongue. Holy communion. Flesh and blood and terror.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two or three more chapters to come? Probably two. The only promises I can make is that there will be lots more pain to come, but also a whole lotta comfort to make up for all the hurt. 
> 
> In the meantime, come say hi and cry to me about sad priests on [tumblr](http://crossroadscastiel.tumblr.com)!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marcus walks until the harbor is so far behind him he can no longer hear the call of the sea, though the heavy crash of waves still echo in his mind. He gets a room and sits on the edge of its drooping bed, trying to push the image of Tomas’ twisted face from behind his eyes.
> 
> And all he can think is, what if I’m too late?

Marcus walks until the harbor is so far behind him he can no longer hear the call of the sea, though the heavy crash of waves still echo in his mind. He gets a room and sits on the edge of its drooping bed, trying to push the image of Tomas’ twisted face from behind his eyes.

And all he can think is, what if I’m too late?

He wishes more than anything that they hadn’t ditched their phones. If only he could hear Tomas’ voice, know that he’s still breathing. That he’s still fighting, wherever he may be.

Marcus lies down on the bed and draws his knees up to his chest. Exhausted, mind racing, he can’t even begin to work out any semblance of a plan. So he sleeps, fitfully, for three hours, and allows himself the relief of a hot shower when he can sleep no more.

In the clarity of cleanliness and rest, Marcus decides there’s only one place he can turn. He leafs through the phone book on the bedside table and dials the archdiocese of Seattle, and with a few clever lies and a name not his own, he’s eventually connected to the deacon that pointed him in the direction of Harper all those months ago.

“You’re the only one I can trust,” says Marcus.

Deacon Esposito sighs on the other end. “We shouldn’t even be talking. Much has changed since we spoke last. I fear myself and a few of the other deacons are the only ones left unafflicted here.”

“You’ve heard something. I know you have. All I need is to be pointed in a direction.”

“Deacon Haraldson spoke to the one they call Mouse week before last. She and her companion were headed to Baltimore. Speak to Father Clovis at Blessed Sacrament. He’s one of us. I have to go. Travel safely, my friend.”

The line goes dead, and Marcus places the receiver back in its cradle, gently, as if doing so may mean the difference between finding Tomas—dead, alive—and never finding him at all.

—

Marcus has a wad of cash stuffed in the bottom of his backpack. He counts it out on his motel bed and decides it’s enough to pay for gas from Seattle to Baltimore and not much else. But all he needs now is to know that Tomas is okay, so he figures not much else is going to have to do.

Not willing to waste another minute, he decides that getting in touch with Father Clovis can wait until they’re in the same city. He shoves his money back into his bag and leaves his motel room.

He’s going to have to steal a car. He can’t rent one without a credit card, and even if he could, it’s not a risk he can afford to take.

But he figures, what’s one more sin to a soul so heavy?

Night falls, and he wanders quiet streets utterly clueless as to what he’s about to do. He suddenly can’t believe he’s never hot-wired a car before. He fiddles with door handles, all locked, setting off a few alarms and scurrying away before drawing too much attention. Even if one were to open, he wouldn’t be able to start it without a key.

And then, like a beacon, like the voice of God ringing in his head and shouting so clear, an Oldsmobile sits with its engine idling at the end of the street. He approaches slowly, ducking into shadows just outside the reach of the streetlights. With no other souls in sight he tries the door, and it opens to him with a soft click.

Marcus climbs behind the wheel, pulls the door shut, shifts the car into drive and quickly speeds away. He watches in the rearview, expecting the owner to come sprinting behind, but the road at his back remains as quiet as it had been found.

—

The road is a thread, thin and brittle and held on both ends by closed fists, and the needle for which it is intended is lodged somewhere behind Marcus’ eyes. And he cannot bear to dream of how the road may end.

God is quiet for the duration of the drive.

—

Marcus makes it to Baltimore in two days time, bone-tired and stinking of the road. He hasn’t slept more than a few fitful hours since leaving Seattle, running on little more bitter black coffee and packets of half-stale crisps.

He should rest first, or shower, or at the very least change his shirt, but he drives straight to Blessed Sacrament and doesn’t consider the stupidity of his own actions until he’s already pushing through the doors and walking inside.

He very well could be walking right into the middle of a trap. Father Esposito could have been compromised. The visions and the voice may not have been from God at all. It’s all been so easy, hasn’t it? Had anyone wanted to draw him out of hiding, they’d certainly determined the quickest way to his heart.

It’s after dark, and the church is still and quiet. A single soul stands, clad in black, at the altar, back turned so that Marcus cannot see their face. Everything in his brain tells him to run, to turn and drive from the church and from Baltimore and to keep going until he finds some place devoid of every other living soul. But the twisted image of Tomas’ face, the echoes of his screaming, spur Marcus onward, toward the unknown presence standing at the altar.

“Father Clovis?”

The figure in black turns, the white notch at his throat stark against shadows that surround him. “Marcus Keane,” he says, and for a moment Marcus swears his smile is edged in fangs.

Marcus blinks away the image and swallows down his racing heart. “I was told that you might help me.”

Father Clovis steps from the shadows, and his features soften in an instant. Marcus is met with a kind face and soft eyes, an outstretched hand reaching for his own.

“I’ve been expecting you,” says Father Clovis, gently cradling Marcus hand. “Come. Sit.”

They take the pew nearest the altar. Father Clovis produces a rosary and hands it to Marcus. “For my own peace of mind—and yours—let us pray together.”

They recite the Lord’s prayer. “Our Father, who art in heaven.” Tomas’ face distorts behind Marcus’ eyes. “Hallowed be Thy name.” Tomas, screaming Marcus’ name. “Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.”

By the time the prayer has finished, Marcus can feel the beads of the rosary cutting into his fist. He blinks away the tears in his eyes. “I’ve come a long way for your help, Father. I need to know if you’ve been visited by a Father Tomas. Tomas Ortega. He would have been traveling with a woman who calls herself Mouse.”

Father Clovis smiles, taking the offered rosary from Marcus’ hand and tucking it into his pocket. “We have much to talk about, Father Marcus.”

“All due respect Father, but I came here in search of my friend, and I fear I may be running out of time. If you could just tell me—”

Father Clovis puts his hand up. “You have nothing to worry about, I assure you.”

“So you have seen them?”

Father Clovis contemplates quietly for a moment, then stands. He gazes down at Marcus. “Come,” he says, gesturing for Marcus to follow, “there is no use is prolonging your suffering any longer, and you look like you could use a shower and a bed.”

I don’t need a bed and a shower, Marcus wants to shout. I need to find Tomas. I need…

Father Clovis leads Marcus down into the basement of the church. It’s a large space, with corridors branching off in every direction. They plod down a second set of steps and push through a heavy iron door, behind which lies a stark white hall peppered with rooms.

They stop in front of a door marked with the number six. Clovis knocks once, twice, waits, then turns the handle and pushes it open. On the other side, a simple room comes into view: a desk, a chair, an old television tucked into the corner. A narrow bed with plaid sheets, unmade, and at the foot of it sits Tomas, his hands clasped tightly in his lap, face emotionless and tired.

He’s as disheveled as the bedsheets he sits upon, curls falling into his eyes, beard long and unkempt. Thinner than Marcus remembers. He stands when they enter, and his eyes meet Marcus’ in the dim light. His blank expression doesn’t change.

“Tomas,” Marcus spits out, his voice some shaken, broken thing.

“Father Tomas, I believe you know Father Marcus,” says Clovis, as if Marcus isn’t shaking like a leaf at his side.

“I do,” says Tomas, though the words are entirely detached from emotion.

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” says Clovis, turning to Marcus. “Father Marcus, room ten is open to you if you’d like to rest when you’ve finished here. The washroom is the last door on the left.”

Clovis leaves them, and Tomas goes back to sit on the bed. He straightens his back and stares at Marcus blankly. “Is there something I can do for you, Father Marcus?”

“Tomas.” Marcus rolls the name around on his tongue, connecting it to the vision before him. His Tomas. Someone he doesn’t recognize. A stranger. “I feared you had been lost.”

“Why would you fear for me?”

“I had a vision,” says Marcus, wiping at his damp eyes. “You were screaming.”

“A vision from God?”

“I think so.”

“How can you be sure?”

“I can’t. Not really.” Marcus braves a step forward, close enough to Tomas now to reach out and touch. “It’d been so long since I’d felt His presence. But I heard His voice. I saw your face. And I knew that I had to find you.”

“I see,” says Tomas, nodding coldly. “But your vision was wrong. I’m fine. Mouse is in the next room if you’d like to speak to her before you go.”

“Tomas—”

“I need to rest,” says Tomas, stretching his body out on the bed, turning his back to Marcus. “Goodbye, Father Marcus.”

Marcus stands watching the rise and fall of Tomas’ back in the semi-dark. How terribly he wants to reach out and touch. To smooth a hand down the expanse of Tomas’ back. Feel the warmth of his skin through his shirt.

Marcus turns then, tears stinging in his eyes, and walks from the room. “Adiós, hermano,” he says, though he’s pulled the door shut behind him, cutting Tomas off from the words.

—

Marcus knocks, and the door to Mouse’s room swings open, her shocked face greeting him on the other side.

“Marcus?”

Marcus pushes in past her, his sadness quickly dissolving into rage. “What have you done to him?”

“What are you talking about? Why are you here?”

“I could ask you the same.”

“Would you even listen if I told you?”

Marcus sighs, scrubs his hands across his face, tries to calm his breathing. “Just tell me what’s happened to him. The man in that room is not the man I walked away from in that motel room.”

“You need to talk to him.”

“I tried. He doesn’t want to see me.”

“Can’t say that I blame him.” She studies Marcus’ face, her own revealing a quiet realization. “You have no idea what your leaving did to him, do you?”

“I left him in capable hands.”

“The years haven’t changed you one bit, Marcus. It wasn’t my hands that he needed.”

Marcus slumps down into the chair in the corner. “Tell me what you’re doing in Baltimore.”

“Winning the war.”

“Turning the surgeon’s scalpel into a bomb?”

“He’s not a child. Every decision he’s made has been his own.”

Marcus stares at her, incredulous, suddenly aware of his own exhaustion. Every bone in his body screams for rest. For a bed. For unconsciousness.

“Do you even realize what he can do, Marcus? Now that he’s honed his gift. It’s like he’s got a demon homing device inside his head.”

“Meaning what exactly?”

“We’re never going to beat them spending weeks in a room trying to save a single soul, and they’ve integrated with so many in the church it won’t matter soon anyway. But Tomas, he… he can track them.”

Marcus gives a tired laugh. “Not hard. Been doing that for years.”

“He can track them with his mind. And when he finds them, he can pluck information from the minds of the integrated before sending them straight to hell. He does it quickly, and it he does it cleanly, and he’s leading us straight to the top.”

“But at what cost to him?”

“You didn’t care about the cost when you walked away.” 

“That’s not fair.”

“But it’s the truth.”

Marcus sighs. “If he can get this information from them, then what are you two doing hiding out in the basement of this church?”

“What he’s given it’s like… a puzzle all shuffled around inside its box, and half the pieces are missing. But it’s what led us here. That and the killings. We know whatever they’re planning next, it’s going to happen here.” Mouse sighs, her face turning soft. “You look exhausted. When was the last time you slept?”

“I’m not even sure what day it is.”

“Go rest. We can figure this all out tomorrow.”

Marcus wants to argue, to make her tell him everything until he understands. But he’s given over to exhaustion now, and his mind will no longer form the words for his mouth to speak.

He manages to pull himself to his feet and stumble from Mouse’s room, down to the door marked ten. He pushes inside, nudges the door shut behind him, and barely finds the strength to kick off his boots before collapsing into bed. 

Somewhere in the fog of his mind he wants to shower, and to change, and to feel clean. But he left his bag behind in his stolen car outside, and sleep comes in with her claws to drag him into fitful dreams the moment he considers going out to retrieve it.

—

Marcus dreams of Tomas’ hands around his neck, tight as a noose, every stolen breath a kiss and a release.

—

Father Clovis wakes Marcus with a steaming mug of coffee and a tray of eggs and bacon. “You’re free to stay as long as you need to. We can use all the help we can get,” he says. “But if you’re going to leave, please wait until morning mass has ended. The fewer eyes on you the better.”

“Of course,” says Marcus. “Thank you. But may I ask, what is this place?”

“In simpler times, this facility served as housing for the homeless. Now, perhaps it’s the place where we make our final stand.”

“Why Baltimore?”

“We’re not entirely sure ourselves. Rome has been all but abandoned. I believe they see His Holiness as a lost cause. And since those that would seek to destroy us have left the Vatican, there has been a shocking increase in demonic activity here. Ritual killings in the dozens. So many of our brothers tempted and taken.”

“How long before they come for you? For the friends you’ve hidden away?”

“I put my fate in God’s hands, Father Marcus. And Father Tomas. They will show us the way.”

Clovis leaves him. Marcus ignores the twisting in his belly and eats his breakfast anyway. When the sounds of mass have quieted from upstairs, he dumps his empty tray outside his door and ascends into the real world to retrieve his bag, deciding while he does so to tuck the car out of sight behind the church just in case.

He re-enters the church basement, showers, changes his clothes. Feeling a bit more human, he ventures back out into the hall, stands in front of the door marked six, listening for any indication of Tomas’ presence on the other side.

And just when his brain tells his body that it’s time to turn and walk away, the door opens, revealing Tomas’ scowling face on the other side. Tomas reaches out, grabs Marcus by the front of his shirt, and pulls him across the threshold.

“What are you still doing here?!” Tomas shouts, shoving Marcus up against the open door frame. His breath comes quick and hot against Marcus’ face.

Marcus melts beneath the touch. The anger in his hands a blessing. “Give me five minutes, Tomas. That’s all I ask.”

Tomas releases his hold, snatching his hands away and huffing over to his bed to take a seat. He frowns at Marcus, waiting for him to speak.

“I should have come to you sooner,” says Marcus, approaching Tomas with calculated steps. “I’m sorry. There’s no excuse. But you let me go. Where was this anger when I was walking away?”

Tomas clenches his fists at his sides. “I didn’t think you were going to stay gone. You never did before. We stayed close by for a week or two. I was certain you would find us. Certain you couldn’t…”

Cautiously, Marcus kneels at Tomas’ feet. Supplication is the word that passes through his mind. “It was agony for me, Tomas. If I could take it back...”

“Don’t you speak to me of agony. You have no right.”

Marcus curves a hand around Tomas’ knee, soaking in the warmth of his presence. “Forgive me, Tomas.”

Tomas gazes down at the spot where Marcus touches him. “You were my teacher,” he says, “and for that I am grateful. But I don’t need you anymore, and you don’t need me.”

“That’s not true.”

“You’re here for God, not for me.”

“That’s not—”

Tomas shoves Marcus’ hand away. “Agonizing about the past will get us nowhere. There is important work to be done. An enemy greater than any we’ve ever faced is coming. May already be here.”

“Then tell me about it.”

Tomas swallows down his emotions, shuts his eyes, breathes in deep. “I believe the demons are trying to summon Lucifer himself. Here, in Baltimore.”

“Lucifer? Star of the morning, father of all demons Lucifer?”

“Thirty-seven ritual killings. They took organs and bones. A few of the bodies were drained entirely of blood. Whatever they’re trying to bring forth with that power, it’s greater than any demon.”

Marcus can taste the bile rising up in his throat. “And what do you plan on doing about it?”

“What I’ve always done. Give myself over to God and fight with everything that I have.”

“You can’t beat the Devil himself, Tomas. Not on your own.”

“Then I’ll die trying.” Tomas stands, pushing past Marcus where he remains kneeling on the floor. “If that’s all…”

Marcus gets to his feet, knees aching as he rights himself. “I won’t leave you again. When the time comes, we’ll fight together.”

Tomas gazes back at Marcus, and for a moment his eyes go soft, and everything feels like it was before they parted. Before their world was cleaved in two. Marcus blinks, and the moment is gone. 

“Stay if you must,” says Tomas. “I can’t stop you.”

Tomas walks from the room, his footsteps echoing down the hallway into silence.

Marcus collapses onto Tomas’ bed then, presses his face into his pillow, and breathes him in. A wave of the past rushes in, like the tide pulled from the moon to flood his heart. Marcus can feel Tomas’ hands on his skin so clearly, in places they’ve never been, lulling him, for a moment, into the center of a peaceful dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone for your kind words and comments, both here and on tumblr! There are still two chapters to come. Will do my best to update again by next weekend. <3


	3. Chapter 3

All too soon, Marcus is pulled from the sweetness of his dream. He rolls over, opens his eyes, and squints up at Mouse’s smirking face.

“Are you serious?”

Marcus pulls himself upright, the relief of slumber now replaced with panic. “Where is he?”

“Pouting in the kitchen. Down the hall, to your right. You can’t miss it.”

Marcus finds him there, sitting in a folding chair at one end of a card table, scowling at his sandwich.

“Don’t leave,” are the only words Marcus can think to say when Tomas turns his scowling from the sandwich to him.

And then he thinks, that’s what you should have said to me all those months ago. Why didn’t you beg me to stay?

Marcus takes the chair opposite Tomas at the table. “Mouse tells me that you’re tracking demons,” he says. “With your mind.”

“I’m doing what I can with the gifts that God has given me.”

“Thought it was a curse?”

“I don’t have time for semantics. If I don’t use it, we’ll never win.”

“Awful lot to put on one man, don’t you think?”

The anger leaves Tomas’ face, and he looks so tired Marcus feels it in his bones. “It doesn’t matter what happens to me,” he says.

Marcus chokes down the urge to scream. “Of course it matters,” he says. “You matter.”

“Then why did you leave?” Tomas’ voice cuts deep, his tone sharp and his eyes welling with tears.

Marcus reaches across the space between them, nudging Tomas’ fingers. “You know why I left, Tomas.”

Tomas snatches his hand away, leaving Marcus cold. “Whatever sense of duty you felt for me—”

“You think I killed Andy because of duty?” Marcus studies Tomas’ face, seeking answers in the tired lines etched around his eyes, finding none. “How quickly you forget what we had.”

“I haven’t forgotten.” Tomas’ voice is now an anguished whisper. “I wake up every day, Marcus, and I remember. And then I remember that you’re gone.” 

Tomas pushes back from the table, and Marcus wants to reach for him, but by the time he remembers how to move, Tomas is already gone.

—

Tomas’ head is filled with static. A million hushed voices whispering at once, none of them making any sense. It’s like putting your ear to a shell and hearing the sea, he thinks. Or pressing it to the floor and finding hell.

But now and then, the voices come together, rushing in like the tide, pulling the thrashing beast of his mind into the deep. He can see them then, in bits and flashes, the ones that are close anyway. And he can draw them in, he thinks, sometimes, though mostly he pins them in place, or stays locked to them long enough for them to be found.

He’s still working it out, his gift and his curse. Like a man on a ship with no sails and no map, searching for land with one busted oar. And the stronger he gets, the less that he sleeps, until the ache is so deep in his bones it hurts to breathe.

But it’s worth it, he knows, when bit-by-bit he pieces their plan together. When he sees the end and the light and the way. When he knows what he is dying for. 

Tomas doesn’t sleep, but he still dreams behind his eyes. And he wonders, had Marcus stayed, would things be different now? Would he sleep soundly at night knowing he wasn’t alone in the darkness? 

Alone, behind the door of room number ten, Tomas weeps for what might have been. 

—

Marcus sits in the kitchen for a long time after Tomas has gone. He eats what Tomas left of his sandwich. He stares down at the lines of his upturned hands.

When finally he remembers how to move, he ambles back to room ten in a fog. And when he pushes open the door, Tomas is there, perched on the little bed in the corner, his face and eyes swollen from crying.

Marcus shuts the door. He stands in the middle of the room, watching Tomas wordlessly. His mouth aches to speak, but he’s forgotten how to use his tongue.

“I still need you,” says Tomas, all the fight drained out of his words. He rises from the bed, and crosses to where Marcus stands. Slowly, he backs Marcus up to the door, pressing their bodies together.

“Tomas.” The name comes out of Marcus’ mouth a plea. Tomas’ warmth is seeping into him from ankle to shoulder. Marcus soaks it up like sun after a long winter. 

“Marcus. Marcus...” Tomas whispers, nuzzling into the crook of Marcus’ neck, his beard rough against Marcus’ skin. His hands are on Marcus’ hips, pinning him to the door. “Estás aquí.”

Marcus’ trembling hands come up to cradle Tomas’ face. “Sí. Estoy aquí, Tomas.”

Tears begin to flow from Tomas’ eyes. “I don’t think that God intends for me to survive this,” he says. “I don’t think…”

“I don’t care what God intends,” says Marcus through clenched teeth, the full force of his love flowing through his words. “I’m here. I never should have left you, but I’m here now. And I am not going to let anything happen to you. Do you understand?”

Marcus doesn’t realize he is crying until he tastes the tears on his lips. Tomas just watches him, fingers digging into Marcus’ hips, both of their bodies trembling. 

“Do you understand?!” Marcus asks again, gripping Tomas now by the arms, shaking him a little. 

Tomas sighs, looping his arms around Marcus’ waist. “I understand,” he whispers, resting his head on Marcus’ shoulder, “that you will try.”

Marcus’ hands are in Tomas’ hair, the tangled mess of it that feels as though it hasn’t been washed or combed in a week. Tomas’ breath comes quick and hot against 

Marcus’ neck. And all Marcus can think is, I want to take care of you.

Tomas pulls himself away, wiping at his damp eyes. Marcus feels the loss of his touch grievously. 

“I dreamed of you,” says Tomas. “I was awake, but when I closed my eyes I was near the sea. I could smell the salt in the water. I saw your face, and you were saying my name.”

Marcus wipes his own tears away with the backs of his hands. “When did you have this dream?”

“Weeks ago. I’ve thought of you so often, I didn’t think it was a vision. But now… I don’t know.”

“It was real,” says Marcus, the terrible weight of it dawning on him in an instant. “A premonition.”

“I’ve had them before. With Harper. The handprints.” Tomas furrows his brow. “What is it?”

“If God wasn’t showing me something that had already happened to you, maybe he was showing me…”

“The future.”

Behind his eyes, Marcus can see Tomas’ twisting, screaming face. And right in front of him, Tomas stepping closer again, his damp, tired eyes gazing deep into Marcus’ own.

“We have to get as far away from here as we can,” says Marcus, his heart hammering in his chest.

Tomas presses one hand gently to the center of Marcus’ chest. “If God brought you here, it was for a reason,” he says, trailing the hand up Marcus’ chest to curl around his nape. “We have to put our trust in Him.”

“Tomas,” Marcus pleads, his voice breaking and small. He rests his hands on Tomas’ waist.

Tomas draws Marcus in, until their foreheads are resting together. “How I have missed you, my friend,” he whispers.

Marcus snakes his arms around Tomas’ middle, pressing their bodies together. The first graze of his mouth is to Tomas’ temple, drawing a sound from Tomas that shoots sparks across his skin.

“Besame,” Tomas whispers into Marcus’ ear. “Por favor.” 

Marcus gasps, his hands trailing up the back of Tomas’ shirt, craving skin, his heart beating so fast he can taste it. He’s hard, and he knows that Tomas can feel it, and the first little kiss he presses to the corner of Tomas’ mouth feels like making love. 

Their lips meld slowly, both of them trembling. Tomas’ hands trail gently up the back of Marcus’ skull, his fingers whispering love into Marcus’ hair. Marcus digs his fingers into the flesh of Tomas’ back as he deepens the kiss. Tomas’ tongue slips into his mouth, and Marcus’ knees turn to water.

They stumble over to the bed, still kissing, and Marcus can feel Tomas’ hardness against his hip. Tomas lies on his back, and Marcus is crawls onto him, settling his body between Tomas’ parted thighs. Tomas grips Marcus’ nape and pulls him down into a kiss that’s more teeth than lips. 

And then Tomas’ hands are slipping down into the back pockets of Marcus’ jeans. Marcus rocks his hips, sliding his erection against Tomas’ through their pants. His head spins, the force of his own pulse rattling him from the inside, and he knows he’s never wanted anything more.

Marcus kisses his way down Tomas’ neck, nuzzling into the hollow of his throat, fingers blindly fumbling with the buttons of his shirt. His lips graze down Tomas’ chest as bit-by-bit he exposes the skin there, and suddenly his lips are at Tomas’ navel, and his fingers are trembling as he toys with the front of Tomas’ belt.

“Marcus,” Tomas breathes out, cradling the back of Marcus’ skull. “Marcus.”

“I want it,” is all Marcus can think to say, gazing up at Tomas, curling a hand around the jut of his erection through his pants.

Tomas nods, breathlessly, wordlessly, lips parted as he throws his head back against the pillow. Marcus works the buckle of his belt free, and then the button of his pants, and as he’s unzipping Tomas’ fly he thinks to himself, please don’t let this be the only time. Please, let me have this again.

Marcus loops his fingers in Tomas’ waistband, tugs his pants down below his hips, taking his underwear with them. Tomas’ erection springs free, lying obscene and dripping against his belly, and Marcus is dizzy with the scent of him.

He can’t wait a moment longer. He tugs Tomas’ underwear and pants down mid-thigh and pounces, greedily lapping at the pool of pre-come leaking from Tomas’ cock. Tomas groans, fingers scrabbling at Marcus’ scalp.

Marcus tries not to think of the only other time that he’s done this, feeling in his bones that this is the very first. The first time he’s ever tasted anyone. The first time he’s felt love on his tongue, blossoming a fire within.

He takes Tomas into his mouth, with a ringing in his head to rival the voice of God. And the ringing is a song, Tomas’ name a prayer looping through his memory, every second they have shared together coursing through his veins.

The whole of Tomas’ being trembles beneath Marcus lips, his touch, and as Marcus takes Tomas deeper into him, Tomas thrusts his hips upward. Marcus gags at the force of it, and it’s the most blissful feeling he’s ever known. He pulls back, gasps for air, dives in again, this time taking Tomas even deeper.

It’s awkward, and fumbling, and spit dribbles down Marcus’ chin as he makes love to Tomas with his mouth, his tongue. But Marcus has never tasted anything as sweet as him. Has never felt a fire burn so brightly as the one that’s stoking now within. He begs the Lord to let him live within this moment forever. To never allow it to end.

But like the sun bursting over the horizon, Tomas’ body begins to pulse. His hips cant up from the mattress, his nails claw at Marcus’ scalp. He shouts his love, in english, in spanish, he whispers Marcus’ name like a prayer. And then he is coming, spurting the warmth of his release into Marcus’ mouth.

The body of Christ, Marcus thinks as he is swallowing it down. The body of my love.

He lets Tomas slip free from his mouth. He lies panting against Tomas’ hip as Tomas trembles beneath him, stroking lazily at Marcus’ hair. He’s aware of his own aching erection, but only faintly, like a distant echo, too content clinging to Tomas to care much about his own release.

“Do you want me to—”

“No,” Marcus insists. “No. This is all I need for now.”

Marcus sighs, his heartbeat stilling. He kisses Tomas’ naked hip. For a while, they doze. Then Tomas stirs, and Marcus allows him to get to his feet and dress. Marcus lies on the bed, watching him, smiling, doing his best to keep the fear from his mind.

“Thank you,” says Marcus, “for that.”

Tomas laughs as he finishes buttoning his shirt. “You’re thanking me? I should be thanking—”

Tomas’ eyes go wide, and the words are stolen from his mouth like a door slamming shut. Marcus jumps from the bed just as Tomas is dropping to his knees, and his eyes grow milky white.

“Tomas!” Marcus falls to his knees with Tomas, cradling his face, searching his stark white eyes for some sign. “Tomas, where have you gone?”

“No,” says Tomas, though it barely comes out a whisper. “No. No.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm thinking I may extend this to five chapters when all is said and done, although that fifth chapter may end up being an epilogue posted alongside chapter four. Regardless, I'm hoping to have this finished by next weekend. Thank you so much to everyone for your lovely comments and continued support! <3


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “He’s not just any priest, Marcus. Not just any exorcist. Have you ever met anyone else who can do what he does?”

When Marcus was a child, he would lie in the grass for hours, watching the shapes of clouds in the sky. How they would twist and move and block out the sun. A small reprieve from his hellish life. And the color of them, grey before a storm, or blue-black as the sky at night.

Milky white as the flesh hidden beneath his clothes.

Marcus blinks, clouds drift by, the almond shape of eyes. “Tomas, come back to me.”

“He’ll come back when he’s ready,” says Mouse. Marcus can’t recall when she came into the room.

“No, no,” Tomas whispers, a prayer and a chant.

Marcus grips Tomas’ face, gazing into the whiteness of his unblinking eyes, as though he can drag him back out from the depths with his will alone. “It just took him. We were talking and—”

“Let him work,” she says, her calm indifference doing nothing to still Marcus’ racing heart.

Marcus forces his hands from Tomas’ face, tightly gripping the bony curves of his own knees to keep them from fidgeting. He can still taste Tomas on his tongue. He inhales deep, and the room reeks of sex and desperation. His cheeks flush.

Moments drag on. Too many of them. Marcus wants to crawl into Tomas’ head and pull him out. But then, like the sky letting go of its rain, a gasp retches from Tomas’ mouth. The clouds dissolve in his eyes, the depths of his irises rising like the dawn. He gazes at Marcus with his lips parted, his eyes wide with terror. “He’s coming,” he says, struggling to his feet. “He’s coming.”

Marcus pulls himself up after him, grips Tomas by the shoulders. “What did you see?”

Tomas inhales sharply, pulling air deep into his lungs, trembling as he exhales. “A falling star,” he says in between breaths. “A falling star come to Earth.”

“Lucifer,” says Mouse. She begins to pace the room.

Tomas stares far off over Marcus’ shoulder, lost still in the vision he’s been given. Marcus grips his face between his hands and drags him back into the moment. “Tell me what else you saw, Tomas.”

Tears well in Tomas’ eyes as he begins to speak. “There was no shape to him. He was everywhere, brighter than the sun. And then he was inside of me. Doing terrible things with my hands.”

Marcus thumbs at a tear on Tomas’ cheek. He aches to kiss it away. “Go on.”

“Humanity was lost. Swept away. I did it. I felt it all. I killed everyone, Marcus.”

Tomas pulls away, crosses to the bed, flops down and buries his face in his hands. Marcus’ palms thrum warmly from the lingering touch of Tomas’ skin.

“He could be here already,” says Mouse. “We’re fools to think they don’t know exactly where we are.”

“Then we need to get him out of here,” says Marcus, turning to Mouse with a fire stoking in his veins. 

“And go where exactly? Demons are terrified of what he can do, but the Devil himself? You think he won’t track his intended to the ends of the earth?”

“So we just sit here and wait for the Devil to take him?”

“Do you have a better plan?”

When Marcus was baptized, he thought that he was drowning. Water, up his nose and in his lungs. Burning, not because it was holy, but because he’d breathed it in. Father Sean just laughed. “The Lord is in you, son,” he’d said. 

The Lord is in you.

Marcus feels it now, the burning, tastes the acrid water on his tongue. “We track them down. Strike first.”

“You’ll only be hand delivering their prize. Everything that’s happened. This is what it’s been leading to. He is who they’ve always wanted.”

Marcus fights against the bile rising in his throat. “What are you talking about?”

“He’s not just any priest, Marcus. Not just any exorcist. Have you ever met anyone else who can do what he does?”

Marcus shudders around the realization. “They’ve been grooming him.”

“There is still a way for us to win this,” says Tomas, rising from the bed. “We wait here. We let him come.”

“Tomas—” Marcus reaches out for him, but Tomas pulls away.

“We let him take me.”

“No,” says Marcus. “Absolutely not.”

“We let him take me,” Tomas repeats, conviction burning in his eyes. “I hold him for as long as I can. You do what needs to be done.”

“No.” Marcus intends to shout, but the word barely comes out a whisper. Father Sean is holding him under. Water is spilling into his lungs.

“It’s our best shot,” says Mouse.

“I won’t do it,” says Marcus. “I won’t let you do it, Tomas.”

“This is not your decision to make,” says Tomas. 

“God didn’t send me here just to watch you die.”

Tomas sighs. “It is in His hands, Marcus. We don’t get to decide.”

Marcus sits down on the bed. The world fades to static. Mouse says something but he doesn’t hear it, and then she’s walking from the room. He is drowning, fading, the water filling up his ears and his eyes, flooding into his mouth. And for a blink something more fills him, the beatific ringing from above, and with it a word, clipped at the end, and so drowned by the ringing that he doesn’t hear it.

He thinks it sounds like hope. Or hell. Or both. Maybe there isn’t a difference.

“Marcus.” Tomas’ voice pulls Marcus from the fog, replacing the water in his lungs with air. The ringing is gone, perhaps was never there at all. He is sitting next to Marcus now, resting his head on Marcus’ shoulder, reaching for his hand. “Don’t be afraid. Trust in God.”

“I trust in you, Tomas,” says Marcus, fat tears spilling from his eyes. “I trust in you.”

—

Tomas folds Marcus into his arms, their bodies coming together like clasping hands. They lie on the narrow bed clinging to one another, chest-to-chest, Marcus’ face buried in the hollow of Tomas’ throat.

Tomas is ready to let it go, all of it. Everything except for this.

Tomas only becomes aware of Mouse’s presence in the room when she begins to speak. “Father Clovis would like to see you, Tomas,” she says. “Upstairs.”

Tomas untangles himself from Marcus, kisses him on the cheek. Marcus doesn’t say a word, only stares at him with wet eyes and trails and hand down the slope of his shoulder. Even after he’s left the room, he can still feel Marcus’ eyes upon him.

He finds Father Clovis in the nave, in the last pew, rosary clasped in his hands. The church is still and dark, illuminated by stained glass-filtered moonlight and candles. Tomas’ shoes clack against the floor like hooves on pavement.

He slides into the pew next to Father Clovis. “You wanted to see me?”

“Mouse says that I’m to cancel mass, close down the church.”

“I believe that would be wise, yes. For the safety of your parishioners.”

“It will only draw attention.”

“It’s likely that they already know we’re here.”

“How many days?”

“There’s no way to be sure,” says Tomas. “But I think not long.”

“I’m not afraid to die for God,” says Clovis. 

“I know. But you don’t have to,” says Tomas. “I am doing this for all of us. Go home. Your parish will need you when this is over.”

They pray together, there in the last pew in the dark. _St. Michael the archangel, defend us in battle. Be our defense against the wickedness and snares of the Devil._ Clovis agrees to lockdown the church for as long as he can. After he’s gone, Tomas continues to pray, thinking back on his vision, the blazing star fallen to earth, enveloping him in its light.

The guilt comes from the wanting, the desire he’d felt there in his vision. The temptation too strong, he’d wanted to be taken. The snares of the Devil are brilliant and burning, wings enfolding gently as a lover’s arms. 

The horror springs from what came after. From what he knows is to come.

—

Mouse sits next to Marcus on the narrow bed. She doesn’t speak for several minutes, and when she does, it’s with words Marcus knows she’s spent that time carefully selecting. “I think that you left for the right reasons.”

“Why’s that?” Marcus’ voice feels too small for his body, shrinking into the muscles of his throat.

“Because we take our vows for a reason. You can’t do what needs to be done when you allow someone else to occupy the space in your heart reserved for God.”

“I didn’t mean for it to happen. It just happened.”

“I know. But that doesn’t change what’s happening here. It’s bigger than what your heart wants.”

Marcus cradles his own head in his hands, counting the thumps of his pulse at his temples. “You think I don’t know what’s at stake?”

She rests a sympathetic hand on his shoulder, for just a moment, and then she leaves him. Behind Marcus’ eyes, he sees Father Sean’s face, obscured by green-tinged rippling water, and beyond him, the sky. Marcus cannot see the clouds.

—

Marcus finds Tomas in the dark belly of the church, in the last pew, fumbling the beads of his rosary beneath his fingers. When Marcus slides in next to him, Tomas lifts his head, and gives a tired smile. “Do you think that God will forgive us?”

“For breaking our vows?”

“I was speaking in general,” says Tomas. “I suppose that would be included.”

“When I heard Him, back in Seattle, He said that I was forgiven. I never asked for it. Still don’t think that I deserve it. If He can forgive that...”

Tomas turns his body toward Marcus, rests his warm hand on Marcus’ neck. “Kiss me,” he says.

Marcus nuzzles against Tomas’ face. “Right here?”

Tomas laughs softly. “What difference is there between here and the basement, really?”

Marcus’ eyes drift upward. Christ gazes down with his benediction. Marcus crawls halfway into Tomas’ lap and grips his face, sealing his mouth in a kiss, swallowing down a gentle gasp. The church echoes with the sounds of their adoration, the soft tick of Tomas’ rosary falling from his hand to the floor. The sharp intake of breath from Marcus when Tomas works his hands up the back of his shirt.

His hands are too much. His hands. They drag over Marcus’ skin, flames over kindling, blood to a vein. Tomas’ tongue slipping into his mouth is a live wire, a jolt to his heart, and lower, spreading warmth right down to his toes.

When finally they part, panting hotly into each other’s mouths, Tomas’ hands have begun slipping down the back of Marcus’ jeans. “I want you,” he breathes against Marcus’ lips. “I want you.”

Marcus swallows hard around his own growing desire, peeling himself away from Tomas, forcing his body back down into the pew. “We should, uh, talk about what’s going to happen.”

Arousal spills from Tomas in waves, He sighs, composing himself, smoothing his hands down his thighs, gripping his own knees. “I don’t know what’s going to happen, Marcus.”

“What if he doesn’t die with you? This isn’t some demon we’re talking about, Tomas. It’s the Devil himself.”

“If there’s even a small chance that we can stop him, we have to take it.”

“I know,” says Marcus. “I know.”

“When the time comes, will you do what needs to be done?”

“I don’t know what I’m going to do when the time comes.”

“This is bigger than the two of us, Marcus.”

Marcus reaches for Tomas’ hand, threads their fingers together. He rests his head on Tomas’ shoulder, nestles into the crook of his neck, breathes him in. And he thinks, what could be bigger than this?

They sit in the silence of the empty church, holding onto one another, not speaking of God, not speaking of anything at all. When Marcus closes his eyes, the darkness seems to breathe, and he feels they are at the center of a bellows, or the lungs of some unfathomable beast. Or the deepest recesses of hell. The corner reserved for those to be given what their heart desires most, only to have it shattered right in front of them.

They breathe with the dark. Together, they breathe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, uh, you may have noticed the increased chapter count. I don't even know what's happening with my own fic anymore, but thank you to everyone who is reading and enjoying this mess of feelings. I'm hoping to wrap this up for real next weekend, when I will hopefully be posting the final chapter + an epilogue.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marcus stands in the doorway of room number six, watching Tomas snap on his collar. Mouse sits in a chair in the corner, wringing her hands.
> 
> “This is going to be a very long night,” she says.
> 
> Marcus closes his eyes and feels himself falling through an endless dark. “Or a very short one,” he says.

Tomas’ eyes are like the dark side of morning. Marcus wants to tell him this, but Tomas is turning away, walking toward the altar, kneeling to pray. Marcus leaves him there, wanders around the church until he comes upon the confessional and slips inside. 

“Do I have to say forgive me father if no one’s there?” Marcus says into the dark. “I have greatly sinned. Too many times to count since I was last in one of these. Beginning to think it doesn’t much matter.” He presses his forehead to the screen, closes his eyes. “Does it matter?”

Outside, footsteps approach. The other side of the confessional opens, closes, the rustling of fabric and the groan of wood as a body settles in. “I’d be happy to take your confession,” says Tomas, “if you feel you need it.”

“Don’t know what I need,” says Marcus.

“The last time I heard confession was at St. Anthony’s. Feels like a lifetime ago.”

Marcus sighs. “You miss it.”

“Very much.”

Marcus straightens his back, pulls in a few ragged breaths, doesn’t fight the tears welling in his eyes. “Forgive me, father, for I have sinned. It’s been… a very long time since my last confession.”

He listens for Tomas on the other side, peers through the screen, finding nothing but dark. He continues, “I have been selfish. I have allowed love to make me selfish. I think I would watch the world burn to keep safe the man that I love with all my heart.”

From beyond the screen, a gentle gasp. “Marcus.”

“And I have defiled him.”

“No, Marcus, you—”

“And I would do it again. Every day, I would do it again.”

“Marcus.”

Marcus can no longer speak, tears choking out his confession. He buries his face in his hands, shame piercing him like a thorn to the heart. And then the confessional door is swinging open, and Tomas is kneeling at his feet, pulling his hands away and gripping his face.

“God, the Father of mercies, through the death and resurrection of his Son, has reconciled the world to himself, and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins. Through the ministry of the Church, may God give you pardon and peace, and I absolve you of your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

Tomas thumbs Marcus’ tears away, presses the warmth of his lips to Marcus’ brow. He waits patiently for Marcus to speak.

“Oh, my God,” Marcus shakes out. His body shudders around unwept tears. He can’t meet Tomas’ gaze. “I’m heartily sorry for having offended Thee, and I detest all my sins.” He wipes at his eyes, tries to remember how to breathe. “Because I dread the loss of Heaven and the pains of Hell.” Tomas grips his knee, shooting warmth into his veins. “But most of all because they offend Thee, my God, who are all good and deserving of all my love. I firmly resolve, with the help of Thy grace, to confess my sins, to do penance, and to amend my life. Amen.”

“Amen,” whispers Tomas, pushing his body in between Marcus’ parted thighs, stealing his mouth in a kiss. 

The tears have yet to dry on Marcus’ face, and Tomas is swallowing down every moan, and his cock is aching, and his heart is pounding against the cage of his chest like a captive animal begging for release.

“Tomas,” Marcus breathes, turning his head and breaking the kiss. “You—you didn’t name my penance.”

“Marcus—”

Marcus presses his palms to Tomas’ chest, finally meeting his gaze. “Please.”

“Six Our Fathers,” says Tomas. “We’ll say them together.”

Marcus nods wordlessly. “Thank you, Father,” he says, crossing himself.

Tomas smiles, though his eyes are sad, and he bows his head, rests it in Marcus’ lap. Marcus flushes, still hard, still aching, heart still feeling as though it could leap from his chest any second. 

Tomas breathes hotly against his thigh, warmth seeping through the fabric of Marcus’ jeans. Together, they pray. Marcus drags his fingers through Tomas’ tangled curls, whispering love along his scalp. And he thinks, for this I would gladly burn. I would welcome damnation just to keep him.

Dear God, just let me keep him.

—

Marcus stands in the doorway of room number six, watching Tomas snap on his collar. Mouse sits in a chair in the corner, wringing her hands.

“This is going to be a very long night,” she says.

Marcus closes his eyes and feels himself falling through an endless dark. “Or a very short one,” he says.

When Marcus opens his eyes, Tomas is sitting on the bed, watching him, exhausted and reverent. 

“We should talk about how this is going to happen,” says Mouse. “If the Devil comes walking through that door, we’re going to have to move fast.”

“We’ll play it by ear,” says Marcus.

“Tomas will have to give himself over right away, lure him in. Otherwise, we may not live long enough to get off a shot.”

Marcus can feel the world tipping beneath his feet. He leans hard against the doorway to keep from falling over. “We’ll play it by ear,” he repeats.

“This isn’t a game, Marcus. Lucifer is going to take him, and we will have one shot to save all of humanity from his wrath.”

Marcus can no longer muster the fire in his belly. “I know.” He sighs. “I know.”

—

They don’t sleep. They eat breakfast at 3am and wander separately around the lower level of the church. Marcus takes his bible from his bag and sits beneath a light in the hall, sketching lines over Genesis that look the way that Tomas’ hands feel on his skin. 

Above him, the light begins to flicker, a subtle pulsing that warps into a full-on strobe. He shuts the bible, sets it along with his pencil on the floor, and rises to his feet as the walls around him begin to tremble.

Marcus walks along the hall, alone save for the rumbling walls and the flickering lights. “Tomas?” No answer. “Mouse?”

He does his best not to run, though his heart is racing and his feet are begging for speed, and he takes the steps two at a time ascending from the basement. He finds Mouse and Tomas near the altar. Tomas is on his knees, rocking gently. Mouse stands beside him, her hand resting on his shoulder. Tomas is muttering something under his breath.

Marcus kneels before Tomas. “What happened?”

“He’s been like this for a while,” says Mouse.

Marcus presses closer, and the words Tomas is repeating become clear. “He’s coming. He’s coming. He’s coming.”

His eyes are clear, though he appears in a trance. Marcus strokes along Tomas’ beard and tries to draw his attention. “Tomas, can you hear me?”

Tomas’ eyes are far away, gazing down at his own clasped hands. “He’s coming. He’s coming. He’s coming.”

The floor beneath them rumbles, as though the earth itself has begun to growl. In Marcus’ head, thoughts begin to race. Thoughts he cannot help but feel are not his own.

_The Church is a flea on the back of the Beast._

_Give him over. Give him up._

_He is Ours. He is Ours._

_He is already inside Us._

Marcus gasps, taking Tomas roughly by the shoulders and shaking him. “Tomas!”

Tomas blinks, raising his head slowly. “Marcus,” he drawls. “Marcus, leave me. You have to hide.”

“What are you talking about? I’m not going anywhere.”

“Marcus, he’s right,” Mouse cuts in. “We should at least get out of sight until we know what’s coming.”

Maybe it’s just an earthquake, thinks Marcus. He presses his hands to the ground and wishes for the shifting of plates, glasses shattering as they fall from cupboards. For Tomas’ eyes to shine again. For this to all be over.

He leans in, presses a kiss to the corner of Tomas’ mouth. “I’ll be just over there,” he says.

“Yes,” says Tomas, distantly, his eyes flicking from Marcus to the floor. 

Marcus rips himself from Tomas and it feels more like ripping the flesh from his bones. Scooping his own heart out of his chest. He and Mouse tuck themselves behind the width of a column, not far from the altar, but the distance feels like miles.

“Keep it together,” says Mouse. “Last thing we need right now is you falling apart.”

“Look me in the eye and tell me you don’t care about him,” says Marcus through gritted teeth.

“Of course I care about him. But right now that doesn’t matter. We do what needs to be done.”

Marcus peeks around the pillar, watches the back of Tomas’ head, the slope of his shoulders. He bunches his hands into fists. “What ever happened to Bennett?” he asks, anxious for a distraction.

“Taken. Integrated.”

“You’re sure?”

“There was an incident at the hospital. I’m pretty sure, yes.”

Marcus says a silent prayer, lets the guilt wash over him in waves. “I should have gone to him. Maybe I could have—”

“You couldn’t. They get what they want, sooner or later. All we can do is cut off the head and hope that the body follows suit.”

Marcus eyes her curiously. “You think it could really be that simple?”

“I don’t think killing the Devil is going to be simple.”

And then, all at once, the church around them begins to splinter, the ground quaking like a pot that’s finally come to boil. Great fissures spread from between pews and up the walls. Glass shatters and pillars threaten to tumble. The doors at the front of the church burst wide open, and though outside the night has just begun to give way to day, the light that spills in is brighter than a thousand suns.

Marcus can’t move, paralyzed as he watches as the light shoots from the doorway and up the aisle to the altar. Tomas rises to his feet, calmly, as though he might be greeting an old friend. He turns toward the light. His lips move but Marcus cannot hear the words, deafened by the static flooding his ears.

Distantly, a voice calls Tomas’ name. Disembodied, Marcus faintly recognizes it as his own. Tomas turns to him in slow motion. At his side, Mouse is shouting something but he can’t make out the words.

The light goes out at once, though it’s not gone. It glows within Tomas now. Under his skin. Behind his eyes. He smiles with a mouth that is at once his own and other than himself.

Tomas takes a step forward. Marcus turns his head just in time to see Mouse pull the gun from her waistband, but before Marcus has time to even think of ripping it from her hand, before she can even raise it an inch, it’s flying from her grasp, landing with a pathetic clink behind a distant pew.

Tomas takes another step, raises his hand, and Marcus’ body is being lifted from the ground, and then his body is slamming with bone-trembling force against the wall. At his side, Mouse has suffered the very same fate.

“Tomas,” Marcus tries to shout, but it comes out a broken whisper, all the air stolen from his lungs. “Fight—you have to fight it, Tomas.”

The pain comes slow at first, then all at once. A crushing, blinding weight, like a hand around his throat while another works at tugging out his spine.. Tomas steps closer, though it is not Tomas, Marcus knows, and his eyes have turned to great pools of light that flood the walls of the church.

I love you, Marcus thinks, wants to shout, but his voice has been stolen. I love you. I love you. I’m sorry.

Marcus closes his eyes against the pain. Oh, my God, I’m heartily sorry for having offended Thee. The pain, the pain. All the fires of Hell licking at his spine. I detest all my sins. I detest all my sins. I am heartily sorry for... I am—

Like heat rushing out into the cold, all the pain is ripped from Marcus’ body in an instant. He gasps, opens his eyes, and his feet are planted firmly on the ground. He blinks once, twice. He is no longer in the church. He turns his head and Tomas is at his side.

“Marcus?”

“Tomas?”

“What are you doing here?”

Marcus wonders where here is, but he doesn’t have to wonder long. He focuses his eyes and the room around them takes the form of Tomas’ apartment back in Chicago. “I’m in your head, aren’t I? How is that even possible?”

Tomas doesn’t get a chance to answer. In front of them, a form begins to take shape, shifting in color from blue-black to blinding white. And then the shape becomes a man, ordinary yet alien, slick and dapper in a three-piece suit. 

The man—Lucifer—smirks, and Marcus reaches for Tomas’ hand. They knot their fingers together. “You have no authority but that which is given,” Marcus drawls.

Lucifer tilts his head curiously. “What authority do you have, Marcus?” His voice is thick as oil. “You’re not a priest.”

“And you’re nothing but a child,” spits Tomas. He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a crucifix, raises it to the Devil. “Behold the cross of the Lord!”

Marcus produces his own crucifix. “And flee bands of enemies!”

“From the snares of the Devil!”

“Deliver us, O Lord!”

Lucifer laughs. “Adorable,” he drawls, and with a flick of his wrist Marcus and Tomas go flying into separate corners of the room.

Marcus crashes into the mantel, but he barely registers any pain at all. He’s back on his feet nearly as quickly as he was taken off of them, and so it Tomas, emerging from beside the sofa with a fire in his eyes.

Marcus reaches out for Tomas, pulls him back to his side. “All holy disciples of the Lord,” he says.

“Pray for us,” they chant together. 

“All holy innocents,” Marcus continues.

“Pray for us,” they repeat as they join hands.

“Saint Michael.”

“Pray for us.”

“Saint Gabriel.”

“Pray for us.”

“Saint John the Baptist.”

“Pray for us.”

“All holy angels and archangels.”

Lucifer laughs. “Who do you think is standing in front of you, man of God?” He laughs. “You can’t exorcise me. I’m not a demon.”

“This is your playground, Tomas,” Marcus whispers. “He’s in your head. That means his power is a part of you.”

“I don’t know how to harness it. I don’t know what to do.”

“Yes, you do.” Marcus leans in so that his lips graze Tomas’ ear. “I believe in you, Tomas. And I’m not going anywhere. It’s you and me until the end.”

“Okay lovebirds,” says Lucifer, “that’s enough of that, now.” He looks left, right, smiles with a mouth full of sharp teeth. Marcus and Tomas are torn from each other, their bodies pinned to opposite walls. 

“Fight it, Tomas!” Marcus shouts. “Fight—”

“And that’s enough of that.” Lucifer plucks the words from Marcus’ throat, choking off his airway with a tilt of his head. He saunters over to Marcus, smirking. “I was looking forward to killing you with his hands, you know. But I suppose killing you slowly right in front of him will be just as satisfying in the end.”

Marcus fixes his gaze on Tomas, ignoring the clawing pain in his chest and in his throat. The space between them seems to lessen with each passing second. Marcus recalls the taste of Tomas in his mouth, brims with love, beams that love across the room and into Tomas’ eyes.

“You have no authority but that which is given!” Tomas shouts, and all around them the apartment trembles. “I cast you out, Devil!”

Lucifer keeps his eyes trained on Marcus. “Do you now?” He clenches his fist in front of him, and the force of the weight in Marcus chest increases tenfold.

“Let him go! Face me, you coward!”

“He’s adorable, isn’t he?” Lucifer chuckles. “Name calling will get you nowhere, Tomas.”

And in that moment, Marcus realizes that the Devil before them is terrified. Terrified of Tomas, of what he’s capable of. The capacity of his soul. It’s why he was chosen, Marcus knows, why he was marked out. Not because he is weak and malleable, but because he is strong. Stronger than any demon or devil or fallen angel. He’d have to be to contain such power.

Lucifer’s stranglehold intensifies. Marcus sputters and chokes. His head spins. Across from him, Tomas’ face flushes with rage. His eyes burn with a fire Marcus hasn’t seen in him for months, perhaps not ever. 

“The Lord is a God who avenges! O God who avenges shine forth!” Tomas shouts, and plucks his arms free from where they are pinned. He pounds his fists against the wall. “Rise up, Judge of the earth. Pay back to the proud what they deserve!” A great roar bursts from the center of the room, an unspeakable energy breaking free. Tomas unsticks himself, slips from the wall and down to the floor, his eyes ablaze.

Lucifer spins on his heels, faces Tomas. “You cannot cast me out, boy! Have you forgotten who I am?”

“I know exactly what you are,” Tomas snarls, stepping closer without fear. “You are nothing! You have no authority here!”

Tomas stomps his foot. The ground quakes, Lucifer drops to his knees, and at once Marcus is freed from where he is pinned, the pain gone as though it had never been there at all. He clatters to the floor, picks himself up, runs to Tomas’ side.

“I’m here, Tomas. Don’t stop. You’re stronger than him. You’ve always been stronger.”

“The Lord has become my fortress,” says Tomas, taking Marcus’ hand, and together they recite, “and my God the rock in whom I take refuge.”

Lucifer growls, light spilling from his eyes, then flickering out. Tomas matches his ferocity, surpasses it, grips Marcus’ hand so tight he fears the bones might snap.  
“He will repay them for their sins! And destroy them for their wickedness!”

Marcus can feel the power surging through Tomas’ hand, through all of him, ripping it from Lucifer’s eyes and turning it against him.

“The Lord our God will destroy them!”

The floor beneath their feet quivers and rolls, and from Tomas’ hand shoots a bolt that surges through Marcus’ body like lightning cutting through the dark. The light in his eyes pulses, grows, focusing itself into twin beams that fall directly onto Lucifer.

"Begone Satan!” Tomas shouts, practically jumping from his skin. “Never tempt me with your vanities! What you offer me is evil! Drink the poison yourself!"

Lucifer lets out a deep, wailing sound, and the facade of his human form begins to crumble. He is nothing but light, a light that feeds into Tomas and slips back out again in a blinding, searing blaze. The apartment around them begins to slip away, revealing nothing but darkness beyond the walls. Lucifer is strangled in the light, in his own light, drowning in it until the space around them glows brighter than the sun.

And then, like the flicking of a switch, the world abruptly cuts to black.

—

“Wake up.” Marcus groans at the sound of a voice he does not recognize. He opens his eyes but they won’t focus, and the face before him reveals itself as a blur of motion and color. “Wake up, Marcus. Tomas, wake up.”

Beside him, a body stirs. Tomas, he knows without question. He blinks, and sees that the face watching him with such concern belongs to Mouse. “Thought I’d lost you,” she says, sighing with great relief.

“What—what happened?” Marcus pulls himself up into a sitting position. He lays a hand on Tomas’ shoulder as beside him he opens his eyes.

“We were dying, and then we weren’t. You and Tomas ran to each other and passed out. Been trying to wake you for over an hour.”

Tomas sits up, looks back and forth between the two of them with concern in his eyes. “Is he gone?”

“You tell me,” says Mouse.

“I think so,” says Marcus. “Tomas, he… turned his own poison against him.” Marcus reaches across the space between them and grasps Tomas’ hands. “You did it, Tomas. You did it.”

Exhaustion painting his face, Tomas collapses into Marcus’ arms and begins to weep.

—

“Well,” says Mouse, shoving her things into a duffel, “the church is in ruins, and I would say Father Clovis is going to have a hell of a time explaining that, but chances are he was surrounded by demons anyway.”

“Speaking of,” says Marcus from the doorway, “whaddaya say the odds are we catch a break on this one? That all those bastards are gone?”

“The demons? Guess we can only hope. I’d say Tomas would know better than either of us, though.”

Marcus goes to Tomas in room six, where he’s sitting on the bed looking somber. He kneels at Tomas’ feet. “It’s over. Tell me why you still look like you think the world is ending.”

“It doesn’t feel over,” says Tomas. “Winning shouldn’t be this easy.”

“You think this has been easy? Everything you’ve given up. Everything you’ve suffered.”

“I don’t know.” He sighs, reaches out for Marcus, draws him in until Marcus is half in his lap and their foreheads are resting together. “I was ready to die, Marcus. I didn’t think there would be an after for us.”

Marcus can’t help but smile. “Well, there is. And I’ll be here as long as you’ll have me.”

Finally, Tomas’ face brightens in a smile. “Can’t imagine ever not wanting to have you,” he says. Then, “I don’t feel them anymore. The demons. There was all this noise in my head now it’s just… quiet.”

“That’s good.”

“But can it really be over? Just like that?”

Marcus crawls fully into Tomas’ lap, straddling him, taking his face in his hands. “Maybe it can.” He kisses Tomas slowly, deeply, pulls away and whispers, “Tell me where you want to go. We can go anywhere.”

“I just want to be with you,” says Tomas. “I don’t care where we end up, as long as I’m with you.”


	6. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, they rest.

The news reports hundreds of clergymen dropping dead, suddenly and at once, in every corner of the globe.

“Integrated demons,” says Tomas from the passenger seat. “I can’t believe it’s really over.”

“You reckon they’re all dead?” says Mouse from behind the wheel. “Everyone who was integrated, I mean. Do you think…”

Marcus pokes his head up from where he’s been napping in the backseat. “No one survives integration.”

“Angela Rance did,” Tomas reminds him.

They drive with no real destination in mind, stopping to eat at a rest stop when they’re hungry, finding a motel just off the interstate when they’re tired. The three of them sleep straight through until the next day and then set out again for nowhere in particular.

Just outside of Raleigh, Mouse’s phone buzzes in her pocket. “Oh, thank God,” she says, sighing heavily. “Thank you, God.”

—

They meet up with Bennett in Atlanta, and he explains to them how it happened.

“I hid, the best I could. The demon never fully integrated. Felt like I was in that little corner of myself for a century. And then it was just… gone. And here I am.”

Marcus hugs him, and Bennett hugs him back. Mouse weeps openly. Tomas gawks in disbelief.

“Where do we go from here?” Marcus asks, after they’ve managed to compose themselves.

“Tomas is probably the only one of us not wanted for murder,” says Mouse, laughing a little. “I’ll go with Bennett. Find us somewhere safe for now.”

They all hug for what feels like ten minutes each, and before they part, Bennett turns to them. “I don’t imagine telling you two to stay out of trouble will make any difference,” he says, “but do try and get some rest. I think we all deserve it.”

They watch Bennett and Mouse drive off into the late afternoon sun. Marcus climbs behind the wheel of the car. “Whatever happened to the truck, by the way?” he asks, turning to Tomas.

Tomas laughs. “A very unfortunate incident with a very angry demon.”

“You’ll have to tell me about it.”

“I will,” says Tomas. “Another time.”

And we have so much time now, Marcus thinks. So much time.

—

They drive until dark, get a room with a single bed. Marcus sits on the edge of the mattress, watching Tomas snap off his collar, kick his shoes off.

“Take off your clothes,” says Tomas, working open the buttons on his shirt, smirking deviously.

“All of them?” Marcus feigns shock.

“Every last stitch.” 

They undress, together and apart, watching each other with quiet smiles, and when they are both entirely bare they crawl onto the bed, lie on their sides facing each other, not yet touching.

Marcus has allowed Tomas to see him naked before, but never quite like this. It was always in momentary flashes after showers, in moments of exhaustion when their minds couldn’t turn to sex even if they’d wanted to. Now, laid bare, Marcus flushes down to his chest as Tomas’ eyes sweep up and down his form, eying every line, every knot of bone, every twisted scar.

“I see you,” says Tomas, reaching out, sweeping a hand down Marcus’ face, curving it gently around his neck. “You are so beautiful.”

Marcus’ eyes brim with tears, and he is not ashamed. Tomas rolls him onto his back, covers Marcus’ body with his own. He kisses Marcus achingly slow, and Marcus thanks God a hundred times as Tomas kisses down to his neck, his chest.

“It’s time that you let me take care of you,” says Tomas, smiling up at Marcus.

Marcus tangles his fingers in Tomas’ hair, nodding without words, throwing his head back on the pillow as Tomas works his way down his body. His arousal leaks and aches against his belly, and when Tomas takes him into his hand he arches up off of the bed, overwhelmed by the touch.

Tomas presses a kiss to the head of Marcus’ cock, laughs when Marcus gasps and bunches the sheets in his fists. “It’s like you’ve never been touched.”

Marcus whimpers. “Feels like I haven’t before you.”

“Am I your first?” Tomas asks sincerely.

Marcus picks his head up from the pillow, reaches down to stroke Tomas’ face. “You are, in every way that counts.”

Tomas smirks, presses a kiss to Marcus’ hip bone, and then another. He nuzzles against Marcus’ cock, licks tentatively at the head, and then takes him into his mouth. Marcus curls his toes into the mattress, crying out for the love of the man that surrounds him.

Tomas is gentle, so gentle, and Marcus wants to take and take until he’s spilling beyond the edge of madness, but he cannot bear the thought of turning this moment into anything other than the softest whisper of Tomas’ love. Tears spill from Marcus’ eyes. He writhes beneath Tomas’ mouth, his hands, stroking his hair and rocking up tenderly into his mouth.

And when Marcus comes, it’s with the force of a lifetime, a million little aches condensing into one and spilling into Tomas’ mouth. Tomas swallows him like a man starved of love, with a hunger the shape of endless want.

Tomas makes his way up Marcus’ body, lavishing him in kisses, whispering solemn vows. He straddles Marcus’ hips, and begins to stroke himself, jaw slack and head thrown back in a wanton display of pleasure. Marcus reaches out with one trembling hand, trails his fingers down Tomas’ heaving torso, his skin warm and slick with sweat.

There is no doubt that it’s the most beautiful sight Marcus has ever been graced with, the truest evidence of God’s love. He curls his hand around Tomas’ own, and together they stroke him to a trembling release, spilling his warmth all over their joined hands.

Tomas’ body goes slack, draping over Marcus and all around him, tangling their limbs together. Fingers tangle into hair, legs curving around hips, drawing the heat of each other in. Marcus presses lazy kisses to Tomas’ forehead.

“Would you like to go to Chicago?” Marcus asks after their breathing has settled. “See your sister and your nephew.”

Tomas picks his head up. “Do you think it will be safe?”

“Safe as anywhere, I suppose. I’ll keep my head down, don’t worry.”

Tomas smiles, then frowns. “But what if they’re not really gone? The demons.”

Marcus takes Tomas’ face in his hands. “Then we’ll deal with it, just like we’ve always done.”

Tomas nods, hope springing in his eyes. He buries his face in the crook of Marcus’ neck, and they hold onto each other tightly. Night folds in around them, and together they rest.

Finally, they rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap! Thank you all so much for your kind words and encouragement and love every step of the way. <3


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